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The Doctor nodded pointedly at her cigarette. 'I thought you were going to give up, this year . . . '

`Yeah, and I thought you were going to let me take a look at your teeth at some point. I'm sure you've got some root canal work that needs doing . . . '

The Doctor grimaced. 'Perish the thought.'

Cat caught hold of his arm and squeezed it. 'Right, so loosen up a bit and stop giving my vices a hard time. Look on the bright side — I'm not bringing blokes back to the TARDIS:

`True.'

Not yet, at least:

Laughing at the Doctor's indignant expression, Cat dragged him towards the colourful market stalls. 'Come on, let's see if we can buy you a bag that's a bit more funky than your last one . . . '

The Doctor shook his head in despair. 'Funky?'

Philippo stood breathless in the quiet gloom of the cathedral, hands clutching nervously at his cap. At the end of the long central nave, two robed figures conversed in hushed tones. One of the cowled shapes turned and stared in his direction, and Philippo shivered.

The shadows of the cathedral were long and dark, flickering fingers cast by the thousands of candles that lined the walls. Huge, soaring buttresses climbed the ancient stone to the gilded ceiling, and overhead hung the huge, ornate cross.

As a child, he'd watched the cathedral being built: spires, buttresses, rising from the earth like one of the mud nests of the biter-ants in the prairie. It had frightened him, and continued to do so over years of dutiful observance of holy worship under its spidery stonework.

It had been an old priest that had helped him conquer his fear. A

gentle old man from the mountains of a place called Italy, on a world far from here.

Philippo gazed sadly at the cross. That had been a long time ago. Father Bernoldi was dead, and with the arrival of the next bishop, Agatho, all his old fears had returned.

His heart jumped as one of the cowled figures glided down the nave towards him, sandals slapping softly on the cold, flagstone floor. The priest gestured towards a line of dark wooden booths in the shadow of the cloisters. Philippo frowned. 'A confessional? But I have nothing to confess. I need to see the — '

The priest unlatched the ornate screen door. 'Nothing to confess? W e all have something to confess, my son. Please . . . '

Obediently, Philippo entered the creaking wooden structure, the dark wood flexing beneath him as he sat. The door swung closed, and darkness and silence enveloped him as the priest's footfalls faded away into the distance.

`You have something you wish to tell me?'

The question came like an explosion after the silence, and Philippo had to stop himself from crying out.

`You seem frightened.' The voice was low and sonorous. 'Tell me what has troubled you so . . . '

`Forgive me, Father.' Philippo's voice was trembling. 'I do not wish to trouble you, but I have seen . . . a sign . . . a manifestation; another of the Devil-boxes: He was gabbling now, relieved to be able to unburden himself of what he had seen. 'It arrived by the city walls, and the creatures within now walk among us! Something must be done. They cannot be allowed to unleash their demons upon us again! Merciful Father . . . '

`Quietly, quietly . . . ' The voice was calming. 'Describe what it is that you have seen. Carefully. Leave out no detail.'

Philippo took a deep breath. 'It was as described in the texts. A rushing wind, and a noise, like the mating calls of the wild ettriggel. Then it appeared, like a desert mirage. A tall box, blue of colour, fire blazing above it. It opened, and two creatures appeared — a man and a girl. The girl made smoke with her mouth, like the pa-artek herders do with their clay pipes.'

`And where are they now, these creatures from the box?'

`They entered the market square, Father.'

`The market, indeed . . . W ould you recognise these . . . creatures?'

`For certain. Their clothes, their manner . . . all is strange.'

`Then return to the market, watch them, report to the cathedral all that they do. Say nothing